I received your letter the day before yesterday, and felt very much obliged to you for it, and was particularly interested by your description of Kenilworth, round which Walter Scott’s admirable novel has cast a halo of romance forever; for many who would have cared little about it as the residence of Leicester, honored for some days by the presence of Elizabeth, will remember with a thrill of interest and pity the night poor Amy Robsart passed there, and the scene between her, Leicester, and the queen, when that prince of villains, Varney, claims her as his wife.  But in spite of the romantic and historical associations belonging to the place, I do not think it would have “inspired my muse.”

     Of our affairs I know nothing, except that we are going to remove
     to Westminster, on account of Henry’s schooling, as soon as we can
     part with this house.

You will be glad to hear that my mother is a great deal better, though still suffering from nervousness.  She desires to be most kindly remembered to you and to my aunt Kemble, and would feel very much obliged to you if you can get from Mrs. Kemble the name and address of the man who built her pony carriage.  Do this, and send it in the next letter you write to me, which must be long, but not “long a-coming.”

I am glad you like Miss W——­, but take care not to like her better than me; and I am very glad you think of Heath Farm sometimes, for there, I know, I must be in some corner or other of the picture, be the foreground what it may.  At this time, when the hawthorn is all out and the nightingales are singing, even here, I think of the quantities of May we gathered for my wreaths, and the little scrap of the nightingale’s song we used to catch on the lawn between tea and bedtime.  I have been writing a great deal of poetry—­at least I mean it for such, and I hope it is not all very bad, as my father has expressed himself surprised and pleased at some things I read him lately.  I wish I could send you some of my perpetrations, but they are for the most part so fearfully long that it is impossible.  You ask about my uncle’s monument:  I can tell you nothing about it at present; it is where the memory of the public, the perseverance of the projectors, Flaxman’s genius, and John Kemble’s fame are.  Do you know where that is?  No more do I.

                                 CRAVEN HILL, BAYSWATER, June 8, 1827. 
     MY DEAR H——­: 

I am sure you will rejoice with us all when I inform you that John has at length exerted himself successfully, and has obtained one of the highest literary honors conferred by Cambridge on its students:  these are his tutor’s very words, therefore I leave you to imagine how delighted and grateful we all are; indeed, the day we received the intelligence, we all, with my father at our head, looked more like hopeful candidates for Bedlam than any thing else.  My